to the rescue,—­Cupid, who, we were told, was to be our right-hand man, and who very graciously informed us that he would take care of us; which he at once proceeded to do by bringing in some wood, and busying himself in making a fire in the open fireplace.  While he is thus engaged, I will try to describe him.  A small, wiry figure, stockingless, shoeless, out at the knees and elbows, and wearing the remnant of an old straw hat, which looked as if it might have done good service in scaring the crows from a cornfield.  The face nearly black, very ugly, but with the shrewdest expression I ever saw, and the brightest, most humorous twinkle in the eyes.  One glance at Cupid’s face showed that he was not a person to be imposed upon, and that he was abundantly able to take care of himself, as well as of us.  The chimney obstinately refused to draw, in spite of the original and very uncomplimentary epithets which Cupid heaped upon it,—­while we stood by, listening to him in amusement, although nearly suffocated by the smoke.  At last, perseverance conquered, and the fire began to burn cheerily.  Then Amaretta, our cook,—­a neat-looking black woman, adorned with the gayest of head-handkerchiefs,—­made her appearance with some eggs and hominy, after partaking of which we proceeded to arrange our scanty furniture, which was soon done.  In a few days we began to look civilized, having made a table-cover of some red and yellow handkerchiefs which we found among the store-goods,—­a carpet of red and black woollen plaid, originally intended for frocks and shirts,—­a cushion, stuffed with corn-husks and covered with calico, for a lounge, which Ben, the carpenter, had made for us of pine boards,—­and lastly some corn-husk beds, which were an unspeakable luxury, after having endured agonies for several nights, sleeping on the slats of a bedstead.  It is true, the said slats were covered with blankets, but these might as well have been sheets of paper for all the good they did us.  What a resting-place it was!  Compared to it, the gridiron of St. Lawrence—­fire excepted—­was as a bed of roses.

The first day at school was rather trying.  Most of my children were very small, and consequently restless.  Some were too young to learn the alphabet.  These little ones were brought to school because the older children—­in whose care their parents leave them while at work—­could not come without them.  We were therefore willing to have them come, although they seemed to have discovered the secret of perpetual motion, and tried one’s patience sadly.  But after some days of positive, though not severe treatment, order was brought out of chaos, and I found but little difficulty in managing and quieting the tiniest and most restless spirits.  I never before saw children so eager to learn, although I had had several years’ experience in New-England schools.  Coming to school is a constant delight and recreation to them.  They come here as other children go to play.  The older ones, during the summer, work in the fields from early morning until eleven or twelve o’clock, and then come into school, after their hard toil in the hot sun, as bright and as anxious to learn as ever.